Dr. Martinez turned out to be a energetic woman in her thirties who looked like she'd dressed for a combination scientific expedition and circus performance. She wore practical boots, cargo pants covered in pockets containing various instruments Alex couldn't identify, and a t-shirt that read "I STUDY IMPOSSIBLE THINGS FOR A LIVING" in bold letters.
"Alex Sterling!" she called out as he approached the law office. "Dr. Elena Martinez, Department of Unusual Phenomena. I am so excited to meet you! Your energy signature is absolutely fascinating!"
She held up what looked like a tablet crossed with a metal detector, which was beeping softly and displaying readings that fluctuated as Alex got closer.
"My energy signature?"
"Oh yes, you're generating a very specific type of field. We've never seen anything quite like it. It seems to correlate with probability alterations in your immediate vicinity. Are you aware that you're currently influencing quantum probability distributions within a roughly fifty-foot radius?"
Alex stared at her. "I'm doing what now?"
"Making unlikely positive outcomes more likely to occur! It's extraordinary! Dr. Patterson back at the lab is going to be so jealous. She specializes in spontaneous healing events, but you're doing something much broader—spontaneous improvement of complex social situations!"
"I really don't understand any of that."
"That's perfectly fine! Understanding isn't required for phenomenon to occur. In fact, your lack of conscious control might be exactly what makes it work. Now, shall we go observe you accidentally save a marriage?"
Alex looked at Dr. Martinez's enthusiastic expression and realized this was probably the most normal interaction he'd had in days. At least she was excited about impossible things instead of confused by them.
"Okay," he said. "But I should warn you—I genuinely have no idea what I'm going to do in there."
"Perfect! That's exactly what makes this so scientifically interesting!"
They entered the law office, where Alex was immediately struck by the atmosphere of profound misery that seemed to permeate the waiting room. Two people sat on opposite sides of the space, both looking like they'd been through an emotional blender, while their respective lawyers whispered in corners with the expressions of people who'd seen too many relationships end badly.
"Mr. Sterling?" A receptionist approached with the weary efficiency of someone who dealt with human tragedy on a daily basis. "They're ready for you in Conference Room B."
As they walked down the hallway, Dr. Martinez's equipment began beeping more rapidly. "Fascinating," she murmured, making notes on her tablet. "The probability distortion field is intensifying. Whatever's about to happen, the quantum landscape is definitely shifting in favor of positive outcomes."
"Is that good?"
"It's unprecedented! I'm recording probability flux readings that should be theoretically impossible!"
Conference Room B contained the most depressing tableau Alex had ever encountered. A man and woman sat at opposite ends of a long table, both looking like they'd aged ten years since whatever had brought them to this point. Their lawyers flanked them like professional mourners, and the mediator sat at the head of the table with a stack of documents that probably represented the systematic dismantling of what had once been love.
"This is Mr. Sterling," the mediator announced wearily. "He's been hired as a... consultant... for this process."
The husband, a man in his forties with the hollow-eyed look of someone who hadn't slept properly in months, looked up at Alex with minimal interest. "What kind of consultant glows?"
Alex glanced down at himself and realized his luminescence had indeed become more pronounced since entering the building. "The unusual kind?"
"Great," muttered the wife, a woman who appeared to be drowning in paperwork and resentment. "Roger hired a glowing consultant for our divorce. This day just keeps getting better."
Dr. Martinez stationed herself in a corner and began setting up various pieces of equipment while making excited notes about "dramatic increases in field intensity" and "quantum coherence approaching critical thresholds."
"So," Alex said, pulling up a chair in the middle of the table instead of choosing sides, "what's going on here?"
Roger, the husband, laughed bitterly. "What's going on is that fifteen years of marriage is being divided up like a garage sale. What's going on is that we can't agree on anything anymore. What's going on is that we're fighting over who gets custody of the coffee maker because apparently that's what our relationship has come to."
"The coffee maker?" Alex asked.
Linda, the wife, leaned forward with visible frustration. "It's not about the coffee maker, Roger. It's never been about the coffee maker. It's about the fact that you don't care about anything I care about anymore."
"That's not true!"
"Really? When's the last time you asked about my pottery class? When's the last time you remembered that I hate surprise parties? When's the last time you noticed anything about me that wasn't directly related to your needs?"
Roger opened his mouth to argue, then closed it, looking stricken.
Alex felt that familiar warm sensation in his chest. "Linda, what do you miss most about your marriage?"
"What I miss most?" Linda's voice cracked slightly. "I miss feeling like I mattered to him. I miss the way he used to bring me coffee in the morning, not because he wanted something, but because he'd learned exactly how I like it and he wanted to see me smile."
"Roger," Alex said gently, "what do you miss most?"
Roger stared down at the table. "I miss her laugh. She used to laugh at my stupid jokes, even the terrible ones. Especially the terrible ones. And I miss... I miss feeling like I was good at making her happy. I used to be good at that."
Dr. Martinez's equipment was beeping so rapidly it sounded like a geiger counter in a uranium mine. "Probability cascade approaching critical resonance," she whispered excitedly to herself.
"Linda," Alex continued, "why did you fall in love with Roger?"
"Because..." Linda wiped her eyes, "because he paid attention. He noticed things. He remembered that I liked extra foam in my cappuccinos, and he learned to make pottery just so he could understand why I loved it. He used to leave little notes in my lunch that made me laugh even on terrible days."
"Roger, why did you fall in love with Linda?"
"Because she made everything better," Roger said quietly. "Bad days, good days, ordinary days—Linda made them all better just by being herself. And because she believed in me. Even when I didn't believe in myself, she thought I was capable of more than I knew."
The lawyers were looking increasingly uncomfortable, as if their carefully prepared dissolution documents were becoming irrelevant before their eyes.
"So," Alex said, looking between them, "you fell in love because you made each other's lives better, and you're getting divorced because... what changed?"
Roger and Linda looked at each other across the table—really looked at each other, perhaps for the first time in months.
"We stopped trying," Linda said softly. "We got comfortable and lazy and started taking each other for granted."
"We forgot that love is something you do, not something you feel," Roger added. "We started treating each other like roommates instead of partners."
"But," Alex said with a slight smile, "you're both still the people who fell in love in the first place, right? Linda still makes your life better, Roger. And Roger still pays attention when he remembers to actually look, Linda."
"I do still love her," Roger said, his voice barely above a whisper.
"I love him too," Linda admitted. "I'm just... tired of feeling invisible."
Alex's glow had intensified to the point where the entire room was bathed in soft blue light. Dr. Martinez was practically vibrating with excitement as her instruments registered readings that apparently defied conventional physics.
"So," Alex said, "what if instead of dividing up fifteen years of marriage, you spent the next fifteen years remembering why you wanted to be married in the first place?"
Roger looked at Linda with an expression Alex recognized from Harold and Margaret's wedding—the look of someone seeing clearly for the first time in months.
"Linda, I'm sorry. I'm sorry I stopped noticing things. I'm sorry I forgot about your pottery class and your coffee preferences and all the little things that make you who you are."
"Roger, I'm sorry too. I'm sorry I stopped believing in us. I'm sorry I gave up instead of fighting for what we had."
The mediator cleared her throat awkwardly. "Uh... are you folks saying you want to... not get divorced?"
Roger and Linda looked at each other across the table, then both started laughing—not bitter laughter, but the kind of surprised, relieved laughter that comes when you realize you've been looking at a problem upside down.
"I think," Linda said, reaching across the table toward Roger, "we want to get married again. To each other. But properly this time."
Roger took her hand. "Marriage counseling?"
"Definitely marriage counseling. And date nights. And actually talking to each other instead of just existing in the same house."
Dr. Martinez's equipment had reached a crescendo of beeping that sounded like a technological celebration. "Probability inversion complete!" she announced triumphantly. "Statistical impossibility achieved! This is the most beautiful data I've ever collected!"
The lawyers looked like they weren't sure whether to be disappointed about losing their fees or amazed at witnessing something unprecedented.
"Well," the mediator said with the tone of someone whose job had just become infinitely more interesting, "I've never had to cancel a divorce because the couple decided to get remarried instead. But I suppose there's a first time for everything."
As Roger and Linda left the conference room holding hands and making plans for their second first date, Alex realized he was starting to understand what Socrates meant about responsibility. He wasn't creating these outcomes—he was simply creating space for people to find their way back to what they'd lost.
"That," Dr. Martinez said as she packed up her equipment, "was the most extraordinary display of spontaneous relationship repair I've ever documented. Your quantum field influence appears to help people see past their immediate problems to remember their core emotional truths."
"I just asked them what they missed," Alex said.
"Exactly! And somehow your presence made it safe for them to be honest about what they missed instead of focusing on what they resented. It's like you create a zone of emotional honesty."
Alex's phone buzzed with a text from Riley: "How did it go? The tent is making celebratory cupcakes, which is either very optimistic or slightly concerning."
He texted back: "They decided to get married again. Also, I'm apparently creating zones of emotional honesty."
Riley's response was immediate: "OF COURSE YOU ARE. This is the best day ever! Come back to the circus—Socrates says he has something important to tell you about your 'expanding influence.'"
As Alex drove back to the circus with Dr. Martinez following in her research vehicle (which appeared to be covered in antennas and probably violated several traffic laws), he reflected on how natural it was becoming to live in a world where impossible things happened before lunch and miraculous things were scheduled for the afternoon.
His phone rang one more time before he reached the circus. The caller ID read: "LINDA & ROGER - THANK YOU."
"Hello?"
"Alex!" Linda's voice was bright with happiness. "We wanted to thank you. We're sitting in our kitchen drinking coffee—coffee Roger made exactly the way I like it—and we realize we haven't talked like this in two years."
"We were wondering," Roger added, "if you'd be willing to officiate our second wedding? We'd love to have the person who reminded us why we got married in the first place help us do it again properly."
Alex looked ahead to where the circus tent was visible in the distance, currently juggling what appeared to be wedding cake samples in the air above it.
"I'd be honored," he said, and meant it.
After all, he was getting pretty good at this wedding thing.